


Choose Not Lethe

by icarus_chained



Category: Dark City (1998)
Genre: Aftermath, Bath Houses, Conversations, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Moving On, Pain, Peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5923561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time after the Strangers have gone, John Murdoch visits Daniel at the bath house for a perhaps overdue conversation on forgiveness, self-forgiveness, and moving on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choose Not Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the movie again last night, since I've been seeing bits of it around lately. Have a small fic resulting from that? **Warnings** for oblique mentions of contemplated suicide, which never came to pass. Daniel has a lot to work through.

The bath house was peaceful. It always had been, he supposed. The warmth of the water buoyed up abused muscle and bone, while its gentle lapping against the tiles made a soothing white noise to quiet the mind. It was as close to peace as a city full of noise and memories could provide. Daniel leaned back against the lip of the pool, closing his eyes and letting his body do its best to ease out and let go of its semi-perpetual tension. After a while, alone in the midnight warmth of it, he began to doze gently away.

“… Doctor?” a quiet voice came suddenly. Hesitantly, as if it hadn’t wished to startle, but old, long-trained reactions would not be waylaid. Daniel thrashed upright, his heart pitching into his throat automatically, and spun towards the sound with one hand already scrambling for his glasses. A dark shape loomed close, kneeling on the edge of the pool, and a hand gently steered the wire frames into his own. Daniel tugged them hastily onto his face, and looked up from the water to find John Murdoch staring apologetically down at him. Daniel, momentarily lost for words, stared back.

“I’m sorry,” John said at last, his hands held carefully at chest height. A very human gesture, an instinct to show he was unarmed and meant no harm. Incongruous and somewhat touching, from a man who no longer needed any physical force to hurt somebody. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Daniel blinked, only once, and then struggled to recover himself. He stood a little straighter in the water, shallow enough here, and tried to face John properly. He did not, however, move back to the edge just yet. He didn’t mean offence, it was still only those older instincts.

“Not at—all, John,” he said, pushing his glasses more firmly up his nose and offering what he hoped was a welcoming enough smile. “I wasn’t—expecting you. My apologies.”

John huffed a little at that, a wry, sceptical expression on his face, and then levered himself back to his feet. He stood for a second, looking down at Daniel thoughtfully, and then seemed to shrug a little to himself. 

“I was hoping to talk to you,” he explained carefully. “If you didn’t mind, that is. Your office is empty. I couldn’t find you anywhere else. I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise.”

Daniel shook his head. “No, that’s—quite all right, John. If, ah. If you could—give me a moment, I’ll be right—with you.” He glanced at John for approval, already turning his body towards the brass steps out of the pool. They were on the opposite side. He hoped John wouldn’t mind the small delay.

“Actually,” John said, giving Daniel pause. “If it’s all right, I think I might join you. I’m developing something of an appreciation for water lately. You don’t mind?”

Daniel blinked at him, but shook his head. He didn’t … he wouldn’t mind that. If nothing else, it would provide a distinction from other conversations held on the lip of this pool. There was the risk, of course, that if the conversation went badly it would only damage what small peace he had, but John was not the Strangers. He was … a small enough risk in that regard. Things were different now.

John smiled at the approval. “Give me a minute to change,” he said, turning without really waiting for Daniel’s response, and vanished into one of the changing rooms beside the pool. Daniel stared after him. He tipped himself gently back into the water, pulling himself backwards for a few strokes largely in bemusement. The water soothed him as always, wrapped around the tense muscles of his neck and eased them at least a little bit. He floated, waiting for John to join him.

John didn’t take long. Daniel wondered vaguely if he had undressed the old-fashioned way, or simply Tuned the articles from him. More probably the former, he thought. John still seemed to have kept the majority of his human instincts and behaviours. Daniel admitted, though, that he hadn’t seen enough of John post-Strangers to truly judge. The man had his own life now. Shell Beach, Anna. In truth, this was the first time they had really spoken to each other since the battle. There had been … so many other things to take care of first. 

He hadn’t been sure he would ever see John again, in truth. He was a reminder, he knew that, a spectre of the worst night in John’s memory. Much as John, in his way, was a reminder of things Daniel would rather like to forget. Old instincts stirred around him, very few of them pleasant. He could not begrudge the man himself, though. After all that had happened, he couldn’t begrudge John much of anything, and certainly nothing so small and relatively benign as a simple conversation.

Which might not remain simple long, he acknowledged silently to himself, as John slipped back into the room in a pair of black swimming trunks and made his way down into the pool. Nonetheless, John had earned that too, if it came to it.

“… I didn’t think I’d find you here either,” John said quietly, as he came abreast and sculled gently alongside Daniel. “It was a guess, a last resort. When I found your office and the apartment abandoned, I wasn’t sure I’d find you at all.”

Daniel nodded, rolling onto his front and swimming a few strokes back towards his original spot. John followed him readily enough. He was careful, Daniel noticed, not to swim too close and crowd Daniel. John had taken his initial startlement seriously, and was trying not to be intimidating. Daniel wasn’t sure if he was touched or ashamed by this, but either way he thought he should ignore it. Drawing attention to it would lead nowhere good.

“I wanted—something new,” he explained, pulling in at the side and turning to rest himself against the edge once more. “A new life, now that I am—largely free. It has been—a long time since that was so.”

John looked at him at this, an intent, piercing stare, but he didn’t comment, or disagree. He only looked around, instead, and then back at Daniel with a small smile. “Yet you still come here,” he noted, with a little hint of amusement. Remembering, perhaps, those other poolside conversations himself. Daniel huffed, and chanced a little smile as well.

“It is—instinct,” he said, shrugging wryly. “The desire for—familiarity. Most of us want something familiar in our lives. It gives us the illusion—of safety. This place was always the safest from them. It was—perhaps natural that it—would be the part I kept.”

John winced at that, a darkness flickering across his features, but he smiled rather than vocalise it. “So,” he said. “You even analyse yourself.” Daniel nodded agreeably.

“The scientist is—his own first testing ground,” he agreed. “I am—an interesting case study. Even among—the rest of our—most interesting population. I admit to some—fascination with myself. And also some—considerable frustration.”

John blinked at that, visibly curious, but again forbore to comment. Interesting, Daniel thought. John was making a concerted effort to be polite. He began to wonder, perhaps a little over-suspiciously, if there was a reason for that. Paranoia was one of those more frustrating reactions he recognised inside himself. John didn’t seem to notice. His expression had darkened slightly once more, become more thoughtful, and he was looking away now. He stared blindly out across the water, dark eyes absently tracking the rising wisps of steam. Something in what Daniel had said had touched off something for him. Possibly the reason he had come here. Daniel, with no longer anything pressing in his life, contented himself to wait until John might want to reveal it.

“… When you say you wanted something new,” John started at last, very carefully neutral. “You don’t want any reminders of them? You want to start again, without anything to remind you of them?”

Daniel exhaled. He turned, crossed his arms on the lip of the pool and rested his chin on top of them. It was as much to avoid looking at John as anything else. He didn’t think John minded too much. The man wasn’t looking at him either.

“You are not a reminder of them, if that—is what you are asking, John,” he said. “I was not—trying to avoid you. I didn’t expect you because—I had thought that you wanted a life—of your own as well. We are … There are choices now, choices I could not—afford to give you then. I expected you to take advantage of that. If you need—assistance, however, I am always—happy to help. If I can.”

John didn’t answer that for a while. He simply drifted there, his shoulders braced against the edge of the pool, his head turned out across the expanse of it. Daniel accepted the silence. He let the man have a moment to think. It was small enough recompense, after all.

“I was happy for a while,” was what the man said eventually. “I _am_ happy. I think, anyway. As much as I know what that feels like. It’s just that … after a while, I started thinking about what happens next. About … responsibilities.” He dipped his head, his lip curling faintly. “You’re the only other person who knows what those might be. I wondered … if you had any advice.”

Daniel blinked. That was … not entirely what he had expected. He had expected anger, fear, the remnants of their ordeal. He had thought John might want a listening ear for old torments, or perhaps a … a shadow against which to exorcise them. But responsibilities? He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t thought of it, and he very likely should have done. He knew, better than anyone, how precarious their existence was here. How very lost and purposeless they were, now the experiment was over. He should have realised that John would feel some responsibility for that, when John’s mind was all that kept them intact.

He had not wanted to, he realised, distantly and ashamedly. He had wanted to celebrate first, to be alive, to be _not theirs_. He had wanted only to be free, at least for a little while, and because of that he had ignored … the responsibility that he too held. More than John, perhaps. John was as much a victim as anyone else in the city. Daniel, though, had been complicit. At the very least, he owed John his knowledge, and yet he had failed to offer it.

“… I’m sorry,” he said at last, turning towards John in genuine shame and dismay. “I did not—think of it. I should have. I am sorry to have—left you to deal with that alone. It was wrong of me.”

John blinked at that, turned to look at him in startlement. His eyes crinkled when he took in Daniel’s expression, a rather rueful one crossing his own features. He dipped his head, his hand playing idly with the water in an effort at distraction.

“It was wrong of you,” he repeated, shaking his head. “It was wrong of _me_. Of all of us, you ... How far back do you remember? How long were you … How long?”

Daniel stiffened, a tense rigidity in his muscles, a breathless seizing of his chest. He didn’t want to, didn’t want the reaction at all, but bodies had memories too. Bodies had fears, and instincts, and his had so many causes to remember them. He shook his head, very slowly and carefully. He did his best to answer.

“I don’t—know, John,” he said softly. “There was—no sense of time. There was no day, only the night. There were—hours, but they were not … I lost count. There were—Lives, imprints. Dozens of them per person. But I—do not know—how long that might—have meant.”

He growled at himself, at how the seizing in his chest had shortened his breath even more than normal, frustrated at the way old fear rendered him near unintelligible. He tried to straighten, to force his battered body upright against the edge of the pool, let his diaphragm fill properly and allow him to _speak_. John turned to him fully, reached out to touch his arm. Gently, Daniel noticed dimly. Gently, and with all the warning in the world, so that Daniel wouldn’t be afraid of him. It made him want to snarl again. He didn’t _want_ to be afraid. He did not do this by his own choice.

“I’m sorry,” John said, quickly and earnestly. “I didn’t mean … I just wanted to know how long you’d … You remember it, you see. I don’t. I don’t have to. I woke up in that bathroom that night, and that’s all I’ve had to remember. But you’ve been awake. All this time. You’re the only one in the city who’s had to … I meant it was wrong of me. To come here, to make you think of it. If anyone has earned a rest …”

Daniel exhaled, a long harsh breath that bowed him forward, and John supported him instinctively. Held his arm, bore him up against the water. Daniel laughed breathlessly. He huffed out what might generously be called a chuckle.

“You are not—unwelcome, John,” he said again, reaching up to grab clumsily at the man’s wrist to reinforce it. “I am not … I have knowledge that—no one else does. You are right to—make use of that. I should have thought of it sooner. Please don’t—worry about it.”

A little pause, and then: “I don’t want to be like them,” John admitted, very, very quietly. “It would be too easy. I am … there’s nothing I can’t do in this city. I don’t want to start thinking … to start doing things because they’re easy, and just not … thinking of those I’m …”

Daniel squeezed his wrist gently, closed his eyes as he nodded in understanding. He groped blindly behind him, seeking the lip of the pool, and John eased him back against it. Propped him there, waiting patiently until Daniel opened his eyes again, his breathing now slightly easier and less ragged. Daniel looked at him for it. He leaned carefully against his shoulder.

“You are not like them, John,” he said, after a moment. “It may not—show very well, but I do—know the difference between you. I have been—a part of what was done to us for—a long time. It is not wrong—to ask me to take—responsibility for that.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think waiting all that time for a chance to free us was responsibility enough?” he asked, and looked away uneasily when Daniel blinked at him. “I’ve had a while to think, since that night. About what happened, how I reacted to it. I, ah. I told Anna. I didn't want to lie to her. I showed her … enough to help her believe. That was not the easiest thing to explain to someone, and I didn’t have the Strangers peering over my shoulder. And Anna … didn’t have the ability to throw me the length of a street with her mind, either. I understand I may have reacted poorly to you, at the time.”

He looked so uneasy. Uncomfortable, stiff with shame and the remnants of anger. Abruptly, absurdly, for no reason at all, Daniel felt a swell of fondness for him. It was something he wasn't used to, a fragile, forbidden sort of a thing. Or it would have been, under the Strangers. Attachment had been … impossible. Beyond unwise, he honestly hadn’t been capable. The fear and horror of shame would have been too much, when he knew so very much that they did not and could not. It would have destroyed him, and so he had refused it. It was a strange thing to feel it now, sweet and rather painful, as though those invisible muscles were as scarred as his physical ones.

“… And if Anna _had_ been capable of that,” he prodded gently. “If she had been capable, hunted and alone and frightened enough to feel she had reason. Would you have held it against her, John?” 

John looked back at him. There was a smile on his face, only a small one, and his eyes had crinkled again at the corners. “You forgive very easily, Doctor,” he said, a wealth of humour in it, and Daniel dipped his head in turn.

“I have committed—a great many evils, John,” he said quietly. “Forgiveness is not—something I can in good conscience—refuse anyone else. With, perhaps, one small exception.” He looked up, his smile gone thin and bloodless. “They were dying. They were on—the brink of extinction. And yet, despite that … I do not think I will ever forgive them. I don’t think—that I can.”

“I don’t think anyone would blame you there, Doc,” John said, his hand warm on Daniel’s arm. “Look, do you … We’re beginning to prune a bit. Do you want to get out, and continue this conversation elsewhere? We don’t even have to do it now, but … there’s a lot I want to talk to you about. Anna, too. There’s things I’ve been learning about the machines, and … things I could use your advice on. If you’re all right with it. I don’t want … I really don’t want to use you the way they did. I don’t want to be like them.”

Daniel sighed, closing his eyes for just a second. “You’re not, John,” he repeated, patting his arm gently. “And I would be—glad to help, however useful I—may prove to be. I was … I do not have much to do these days. I have been …” He paused, wondering how wise it would be to say it, and then deciding it did not matter. Who else besides John would he tell? “I did—think for a while about—removing myself. Permanently, if—you understand my meaning. But in the end, I think I am—too stubborn for that, too. I will be glad to … have a purpose again.”

John had frozen at that. John had gone stiff and rigid as stone, the sense of him suddenly potent and roiling with force. Old instincts curved Daniel’s spine back into the tiles, but he was not truly afraid. Indeed, a little, he was rather gratified. 

“What does that mean?” John asked, low and dangerously. “What do you mean by that?”

Daniel chuckled. “I mean what—it sounds like, John. I thought about—water, mostly. It felt … fitting. It was not … I do not think it was—guilt, or even fear. Perhaps it should have been. But I was relieved, I think. My purpose was—completed. I did not have to—continue anymore. Not if I did not want to. I was—very glad of that. And I thought about—allowing it. But in the end … In the end I am still—possessed of those two greatest of scientific sins. I am—too curious, and I am too—proud. I wanted to see what would—happen next, and I wanted to—enjoy having survived them. I am, I think, a very selfish—man.”

There was a long, _long_ pause after that, a very dangerous beat altogether, and then:

“If you are,” John said, “then you’re not alone. If those are the standards of selfishness, then … then you are very far from alone in them. I’m not …” He paused, pressed his lips together. “I’m glad you didn’t … remove yourself. I don’t know if I’d have helped or hurt, had I been here, but … I’m sorry that was something you had to decide alone. I’m glad you decided what you did.”

Daniel smiled at him. He felt that little bloom of fondness again, as well as a deeper peace than any other in his rather abused memories. He fumbled through the water, found John’s other hand and held it lightly. “I am—glad too,” he said, softly and sincerely. “As I am—glad to help you, if I can. This is—a new city, John. One that I am—glad to be part of. I thank you for that.”

“… You’re owed some thanks there yourself,” John noted softly, but he didn’t press the point. He shook his head, instead, and looked over towards the brass steps. “Will I take you to dinner? Anna’s waiting at the hotel. You can meet her, if you want. You don’t have to. Not … not right away.”

Daniel shook his head too. “I would be—delighted to meet her,” he said, as he pushed off the side of the pool and struck out lazily towards the steps. John, behind him, moved slower and more startled to do the same. It seemed no distance at all before they reached them. There seemed to be a sort of strength to be found in good company, an absent confidence that enabled battered muscles to perform almost without noticing it. Daniel chuckled to himself for that. What would John say, he wondered, to know his presence was such a tonic? He would be embarrassed, he decided. Or perhaps amused. It was a good sort of thought to have.

It was, perhaps, the kind of thought it did no harm to share.

“… You are a good man, John,” he said, turning at the steps to face him once more, to look steadily at those intense features and dark, lazy eyes. To look at the man who had saved them all, in the end. “You don’t have—to be afraid of what—you are. You are not like them. I do not think—that you can be. No matter what—your memories are, some things are not—your nature. Don’t be—afraid of them.”

John stood there, a lean, powerful figure, the warmth of the water lapping peacefully around him. There was a look in his eyes, the kind of look that no one who had not experienced the Strangers could understand. He didn’t speak for a second, and then …then he Tuned himself into the air, lifted himself out past Daniel onto the floor beyond, and turned back to hold a hand down to him afterwards. Offering Daniel … something warm and physical, in lieu of all else his power might do. It was … a very wonderful gesture indeed.

“Is it easier to forgive others or yourself?” John asked him, only a little pointedly, and Daniel shook his head with a smile. He took John’s hand, let the man lever him gently out of the pool, and gently conceded the point. They both had their own terrors, the instincts carved into body and mind by what they had seen. They could, Daniel supposed, no more blame themselves for that than they could each other.

So then. It was time, perhaps, to focus on something else. A new life. A new city. The kind of chance that none of them had ever had before, or ever would have were it not for the struggles of those in this room.

“Lead on, John,” he said softly, his hand still warm in the other man’s. “You have, I think, much to—introduce me to. The lovely Anna not—least of all. It would not do to—keep the lady waiting.”

John looked at him for a second, his eyes so warm and dark, and then he nodded. “No,” he said, with the smallest of smiles. “No, that wouldn’t do at all.”

Some things, after all, beyond any thought of forgivable or unforgivable, were simply _impolite_.


End file.
